


Applied Force

by CheshireCaine



Series: Newton's laws of motion [3]
Category: Batman (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Dude writing this made me so sad, Emotional Hurt, Hopeful Ending, Liberal dose of Hamlet quotes, Literal Sleeping Together, Literary Nerd Jason Todd, M/M, Post-Break Up, Sleeping Together, dude who even knows what tim's thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-06
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-12-11 22:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11723979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCaine/pseuds/CheshireCaine
Summary: No. It was Tim who had shown up at Jason's door, not the other way around.It was up to Tim to speak for himself.





	Applied Force

**Author's Note:**

> FYI I'm counting this as my first 5k+ fic (ignoring both NaNoWriMo stuff and the fact that my first real 5k fic will probably make me change my mind).
> 
> Remember how I said this series was looking to be longer than three stories? Yep. Honestly, it's _way_ too much fun writing in this universe, even if it's also heartbreaking.
> 
> I also took way too much liberty with the Hamlet quotes. I think part of me is sad I don't have to analyse it anymore—except I'm also trying for a mostly English degree so that's unlikely.

For three months, Jason was more productive than he’d ever been. He scrubbed the entire flat down from top to bottom and attacked it with every cleaning instrument he could get a hold of. Then he did the same with all his safe houses, hiding away anything he could find that didn’t belong to him, Roy, Kori or occasionally Cass.

He hadn’t been this much like a knife to the gut of Gotham crime since his return from the dead. Careful to avoid meeting the other Bats, he decisively tore through each syndicate and gang, shredding through them like paper.

If it weren’t for what had inspired his sudden work attitude, Jason would have laughed at how he’d managed to achieve the kind of crime drops he’d aimed for when he first put on his hood.

Bruce couldn’t even hunt him down to complain, because Jason was still following his code. Jason had every Gotham drug runner and hitman running scared with _rubber bullets_.

Not that he could say the same necessarily for when he would drag the Outlaws out of the city, or the state, the country, the _planet_ to carry out missions. (Roy and Kori never said no). Hanging out in Gotham indefinitely bored them to death.

(Plus . . . Jason’s eyes had deep shadows carved into them and he only ever caught Zs when he’d worked till even Superman would drop).

(They could tell that he only ever dragged himself out of the protective cocoon he was reinforcing when they were around. During their adventures was the only time he’d let loose of all his inhibitions and the _burden_ ).

(Kori said it was the time away. Roy said that it was that or the catharsis of shooting enemies indiscriminately. He pointed out to Kori that a major reason why his archery skills hadn’t dropped as a teenager wasn’t the warrior mind-set, but picturing Ollie’s face superimposed over everyone he aimed at).

It was thanks to Jason’s exhaustive efforts that he managed to keep himself fairly well rested and fed for three months (with the occasional ‘we’ll always be there for you, dude’ help of Roy and Kori).

But he couldn’t rely on them forever. At the very least, he wanted to go back to never hearing their sexual preferences live. So, on one such occasion of off-planet travels, he reserved them some time off at a space hotel greatly recommended for humanoids. Only wanting the best for his best friends, he even checked to see if it passed the Green Lantern standard for intergalactic ethics.

Kyle had seemed busy/alarmingly close to a painful death when Jason got in touch, so he left him alone. And Hal got along well enough with Bruce nowadays that there lied a real risk he’d let Bruce into the knowledge that one of his former proteges was asking for extensive intel about a location’s threat level—enough to storm the place.

With Jason’s luck, Bruce would let Damian tag along, and the boy would be scarred forever when he walked into Roy and Kori’s suite. Also, Kori would destroy him if they were interrupted. Jason didn’t want to imagine what would happen if Nightwing went too—worst case scenario: he’d get a call asking to bump up the room service to satisfy three guests.

So, Guy Gardner it was. Jason understood why Bruce wanted to punch him on sight. The thought of Batman letting loose on the man helped him stand the wad of testosterone and attitude granted omnipotence by an ignorant higher power. (Not that Jason doubted Gardner had will. He had it in spades. Jason just didn’t think that will needed to be weaponised. Or made intergalactic). And the certainty that Bruce would be aggravated by Jason meeting Guy pushed him enough to let him go for a all-night bender with the Green Lantern after he used his ring to look up the resort planet free of charge (if you didn’t count suffering a bravado-laden conversation with him first).

After Guy extorted a promise for another night out and a future crime-fighting team-up, Jason trudged back to the ship in sunglasses and let Roy drive, leaving the Green Lantern to hook up with a new lady-friend ( _“Someone as beautiful as you can’t be real.” “I’m a real translator if that’s what you mean-”_ ) before dragging his own arse back to Earth.

Before Kori and Roy could get tired of his moping, he left them instructions for an ‘important mission’, ditching the ship when he reached mainland and setting it to pick them up from Outlaw Island. _(“It’s not like we can just call it ‘Kori’s island that we hang out on between missions and the Bats being annoying’, Jason!” “Better than the slogans on your trucker hats, Roy.” “I like this name.” “See!” “It is most definitely better than Roy’s hats.” “Ha!”)._ Jason had the ship’s co-ordinates set for the hotel and the most expensive suite in the place booked for three weeks—not that he expected them to come up for air enough to appreciate it fully.

No, that was a lie—Kori found Roy’s projects endearing enough, when he didn’t obsessively start reverse-engineering everything within sight for days on end. (If he didn’t take a break to chow down on hastily made sandwiches; they knew he was having a bad day). She confessed to Jason that she started to recognise Roy’s nerdy passions as cute once the group’s encounter with Lobo had proved their life-saving relevance.

Jason couldn’t argue with that, self-consciously rubbing at his neck.

With that and Roy gushing over Kori’s enjoyment of new experiences on Earth—cafés on Italian piazzas being a favourite—Jason wondered if he should start planning their wedding. Knowing them though, he figured they’d elope and get it over with. Jason wouldn’t mind being planner, maid of honour and escorting Kori down the aisle, but he’d drawn the line at ring-bearer. He’d leave that to Waylon. Killer Croc would be the only person he could expect Roy to invite.

An alien princess marrying Robin Hood while being looked over by an assassin and a tearful crocodile man.

Maybe he should get on top of panning Roy’s sobriety anniversary party with Kori, if being idle meant that he was going to start thinking about their wedding, Especially when they’d probably never feel the need to declare their love on paper.

When he reached the mainland, he dithered about for a few hours, fielding e-mails from informants at the airport—instinctively angling the screen away from morning travellers and cameras—and making the most of the drinks selection in first class.

Jason’s plane landed a state over in New York, and he picked up a plain-looking motorbike at one of his boltholes. Speeding down highways by himself was soothing and he pulled into Gotham in the early evening.

He drove into the underground garage a block away, rolled the bike down through the blocked off sewers and left it in the basement, stifling a yawn as he took the private lift up to his flat.

Needing to stretch his aching muscles, Jason stepped into the section of gym complete with floor mats, punching bag and various weaponry. He’d knocked down the walls around the spare room, after he realised he wouldn’t have need for it (anymore).

He stripped down to trousers and moved into katas. Jason moved fluidly, working himself till he was panting and coated in sweat.

He came to a stop, grabbing the t-shirt he’d ripped off and thrown to the side. He wiped at his neck as he rummaged for clean clothes and headed for a shower. He let the water run down his chest in rivulets, leaning his head back to rest on the tiled wall.

Tired but starving, he forced himself to the kitchen to make himself a couple portions-worth of pasta. At the counter, he picked up the scrap of paper he’d found tucked under the door. Jason twirled it between his fingers; thinking. There was a very short list of people who knew where he lived and could get in under the radar. He gathered there was supposed to be a note written on it, but the messenger had only written the words ‘Jason’ and ‘I’ before cutting themselves off with a scribble.

The writer didn’t write by hand often, but Jason would recognise the handwriting anywhere. If that wasn’t enough, he only knew one person pretentious enough to write in red ink like a high school teacher. (Not even Roy would, mostly because he’d had a pretty shit high school experience himself and wouldn’t care for a reminder).

Jason filled the kettle under the tap and switched it on. He grabbed the chopping board and sliced up some peppers, mushrooms and carrots before dumping the vegetables into a pot with mascarpone sauce.

He turned on the stove, and left idle, his thoughts wandered. 

Why had Tim come to the flat?

It couldn’t have been an emergency—any messages could come through official channels a hell of a lot quicker. For that matter, he could have received them that very morning on the ship or when he checked his e-mails.

The words were written over a bit of a newspaper article. He could always look up the article to work out when the paper was left behind—

The grumbling kettle clicked off. Jason emptied a packet of fusilli into another pot and coated it in the boiling water, then set that to cook too.

He had time. He grabbed his laptop and sat cross-legged on the sofa, copying the text into the search bar.

Bingo. An article about millennials, yadda yadda. From . . . today.

The note had been left that day.

Jason shoved the laptop to the side and dropped his elbows to his knees. Resting his face on his overlapping fingers, Jason sat in silent contemplation.

Why the note? Why a note at all? Why show up in person? Why not tell him in person?

Jason’s head span.

This didn’t make sense. _Tim_ didn’t make sense. _None of this_ made sense.

Except for the weird messages Jason had been getting for the past week.

Could Tim be behind them? What did they mean?

They being cryptic texts sent to his current burner phone and ended with an apology for phoning the wrong number.

Jason wouldn’t have thought anything of it, if it weren’t for a missed call from a blocked number the next day. And then two days of being hung up on when he caught the calls. He’d assumed he had an indecisive informant and planned to use the ship to look it up, except yesterday, the day he’d spent with Roy and Kori, the calls had stopped being placed. He would have mentioned it to the two, but he’d been distracted checking up on their reservation and didn’t see the point in stressing them out when he was sending them on a de-stressing holiday.

It probably wasn’t anything malicious—if he was being tracked, the caller would need to call for more than two seconds; and if he was being threatened, well, he’d need to be threatened.

Out of context, the messages and calls from a blocked number were meaningless. But Tim, who could _easily_ get a hold of his number, leaving him a note at his front door cleared up a lot.

Except . . . why?

What was the point? It couldn’t be good news. It couldn’t be anything important.

Urgent? Maybe. Personal? Definitely.

If Tim was getting in contact with him one-on-one through his new number, avoiding communication when anyone who knew him personally could be _sure_ he was with Kori and Roy, and sneaking to his home when nobody ever visited . . . it was something he was ashamed about.

Jason pondered what it could be for a while, but he knew the answer from the offset.

It was him. It was their relationship. It was _him_. Jason.

Jason knew Tim was ashamed because it involved their relationship, and him wanting something Jason didn’t owe him—that he had no right to.

But if he was trying for contact anyway, he must be desperate . . . And, more importantly, sure that Jason would give him whatever he wanted.

Jason smacked his lips a couple of times, no longer trying to guess what _he_ wanted. He punched a sofa cushion.

The sound of bubbling water and the smell of burning pasta sauce hit Jason.  He sprinted across the room, lowering the heat on the sauce and stirring it with a wooden spoon set to the side. He grabbed oven gloves and held the pot of pasta against the side of the sink, draining it of the leftover water. When he was done, he tipped the pasta into the sauce, raising the heat and stirring it all together.

Jason silently munched through his dinner while watching the TV and avoiding thinking about T— _him_ TV detective shows were the most mind-numbing thing he could watch. Until they chanced upon a real and interesting crime and suddenly he had plans for the next day. (Roy took advantage of Jason’s skill-set and curiosity to drag him out to solve the mystery—like they were both still sidekicks desperate to prove themselves).

“—reminder, folks! If you see a man matching this description, call our tipline! The number is—”

Munch. Munch. Munch.

“—We have staff ready to take your call 24/7—”

Munch. Munch.

“—last spotted at—”

Munch. Jason reminded himself to drop Barbara a line about would-be detectives doing something stupid and getting themselves in Killer Croc’s crosshairs. He’d have hoped that by now Gothamites would realise that the man/monster they were looking for was either the kind to eat people or had already been eaten.

“—and as we always say—”

Jason turned off the television before the over-enthusiastic presenter could reel off the show’s slogan again. He pushed his plate to the side and stretched his arms over his head, letting out a quiet sigh of relief. The sigh paved the way for a deep yawn that cracked his jaw.

He washed up, then moved to the bathroom to mechanically brush his teeth.

Jason trudged into his bedroom, flicked off the lights and collapsed on the bed, lying face down. He breathed heavily into the pillow with a smushed nose, turning to the side to give himself air.

“Hello, pillow.”

Realising it was too uncomfortable to sleep, he groaned, rolled over and slid under the sheets. He fidgeted. He wriggled. He . . . couldn’t sleep.

He groaned loudly and rolled onto his side, pulling the pillow around to enclose his head. Curling up and screwing his eyes shut, Jason stubbornly tried to pretend himself to sleep.

_(“I’m Robin, the Boy Wonder! I can do anything!” “Anything, you say? I don’t think that’s possible.” “Even if Jason can’t, Robin can do anything. So that means I can do anything.” “I’m inclined to agree with Master Bruce, Master Jason. You have yet to show the ability to go to bed on time”)._

He kicked his legs out, stretching them like a cat. Giving up on that attempt, he turned to face the ceiling again. He opened his eyes blearily; they shuttered like blinds so he let them slip closed again.

He remembered a trick that the All Caste monks had taught him meant to render himself unconscious.  _(“Oh, please. That sounds completely counter-intuitive. You might stimulate the sympathetic nervous system but forcing yourself to fall asleep in minutes would stress you out and wake you up more.” “This is true, Jason. However, it is simply a matter of practice. Practise enough times and you will sleep much better, I am sure.” “Ha. And if that fails, your routine will have you out straight away so you do not collapse midst your morning responsibilities.” “Stop coddling the boy.” “Lady Ducra!” “If the boy needs help sleeping, then he is simply not training hard enough. Training doubles from tomorrow onwards")._

Jason’s mouth quirked. _(“Lady Ducra, we wish not to question you but—” “You believe I am being too harsh on the boy.” “Yes, my lady. He is still young—he cannot survive this new regime.” “He does not need to.” “Lady Ducra?” “A week of this and he will have exhausted himself enough to follow a normal sleep pattern. We will save the restless training for later.” A smile. “Yes, Lady Ducra”)._

Jason curled up again . . . He didn’t need sleep anyway.

. . . Jason flopped over, splayed out on his front again. He kicked out casually at the blankets to free his feet from their entanglement.

So much for an early night to get himself rested for a full day of work tomorrow. He’d been awake for _hours_ , tossing and turning in the dark like he was in a heatwave. He wasn’t. He just couldn’t sleep.

Jason sighed.

He knew why he couldn’t sleep; he’d just figured it wouldn’t be an issue anymore or, at least, right now. Three months wasn’t enough to get him used to sleeping alone again. And having a warm body next to him wasn’t enough—certainly, puppy piles in the sunshine with Roy and Kori got him happy enough to drop off—it depended on the person.

_The_ person being the operative words. Tim had gotten him used to sleeping besides someone he lo— cared for, and now he couldn’t turn back to how he had been before.

Solitude didn’t have the same ring of peace anymore. Tranquillity had become smelling bitter, earth-coloured coffee that (appropriately) smelled like mud. And the frenetic tapping of fingers on keys from two grown men compressed onto a couch; one too conscious of his smaller size thanks to the other’s teasing. Toes pressing into his thigh as the owner stretched out ( _“Trying to make up for being short, eh, T— oof!” “I’m armed with more than one cushion, Jason. I’d be careful not to say anymore.” “Is that so? . . . Shortie—stop! Stop! I give, I give! Uncle! UNCLE!”_ ) and pressed into his side like he was testing for give. (Jason would always give for him).

Now, being alone reminded him of what he was missing—as in lacking, not _pining_. Being alone was a demonstration of _lack_. A voice without sound. A tin man without his heart. A half-empty sofa.

Before, he strived for the quietness of being alone . . . but for the never-ending thrum of Gotham. It’s why he had never been able to stand the silence of the manor with footsteps muffled by carpet and laughter constrained by thick oak doors.

He sighed again. Maybe this wasn’t a new desire. Either way, Tim had changed him.

Tim’s hands had pushed their way into his chest and wrapped the vessels around Jason’s heart to his suiting. It only made sense that he’d leave some shrapnel of himself behind, caught up in Jason’s threads too deep for Jason to pull the pieces out.

Either Jason leave them there to stay or escape by themselves, or Jason slice through his own heart threads. Cutting himself off sounded immediately satisfying, but the ache had grown the slightest bit duller in three months, and he couldn’t set himself adrift from Kori and Roy like that.

At least Jason could admit Tim’s impact to himself.

He scoffed. Impact was a good word for the devastating effect of Tim, former partner to the Batman and bona fide earthquake.

The words he’d underlined in his battered copy of _Hamlet_ from high school came to mind.

_O, that this too too solid flesh would melt_

_Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!_

That’s what he needed: to resolve himself. Admitting the problem was step one, right?

Jason just needed to accept it and get over it.

He slipped out of bed, giving himself a moment to press his feet to the floor. He needed to anchor himself to deal with the vertigo of sudden movement. He rubbed at the ache settled into his neck and pushed himself up, stumbling slightly as he headed for the kitchen.

He poured some milk into a pan and set it to heat. The memory of annotating _Hamlet_ in his bedroom and being interrupted by Alfred stepping in and revealing his own fondness for the play inspired him with an idea. Shaking some powdered hot chocolate out of a packet, he ducked around the cupboard door to pull a tin of sugar and spoon some into the mixture.

He lifted _Hamlet_ from its place on his bookcase, sandwiched between _The Bloody Chamber_ and _Paradise Lost_ —he _knew_ Alfred still had his copy of _Titus Andromedus_ —and curled up on the sofa with his mug of hot chocolate. He’d topped it with whipped cream, marshmallows and milk chocolate shavings like an affable Alfred would make for him. (The first time had led to Jason breaking down and admitting his mother could never afford to dress up the drink for him, and he’d never managed to thank her for making it at all before she died).

He didn’t know what time it was, only that he’d gotten to Act Three with the tragic prince declaring:

_Tis now the very witching time of night,_

_When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out_

_Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,_

Jason paused to hold the book open in his lap with one hand, gulping the last bits of chocolate and trying not to hack as he swallowed the undissolved powder at the bottom.

_And do such bitter business as the day_

_Would quake to look on_ . . .

He heard a noise from the front door. It repeated itself, louder. Someone was knocking at the front door.

It couldn’t be— but, it could.

Deciding to act boldly, it was his home after all, Jason gently deposited the mug on the table and left the book flipped down, swaggering over to the door.

He wrenched it open. Blinking twice—sue him, he was a little shell-shocked—at the man on the other side, he stood there silently still leaning on the door.

“I, umm, I was just—”

Jason cut off Tim’s stuttering by walking away and leaving the door open.

Not too stupid to realise the open invitation, Tim stepped in, turning to close the door behind him. He walked in to see Jason pulling out a pan again and getting the milk to make more hot chocolate.

Tim gingerly sat himself upon the sofa and twiddled his fingers.

They stayed in their respective positions silently—Tim sat upright on the sofa seat, his strict posture failing to hide his nerves, and Jason standing by the stove, staring straight ahead with the cold resolution he never normally showed in the other’s presence. Of course, in this case, it was _because_ of the other’s presence.

Jason came back for his mug and chose not to point out that Tim was sitting in his old— where he used to sit. He poured them both drinks—without the added decoration this time—and held out the other mug for Tim, who quietly thanked him.

Almost daring Tim to point out that the younger man’s favourite mug was currently being used by Jason, Jason ignored Tim’s silent contemplation of his drink and sipped at his own.

After a few minutes of silence—and quiet sipping on his part—Jason picked up his book again and determinedly carried on reading.

Seeing Jason relax, Tim mirrored his calm (which Jason should have expected) and started on his own drink.

God, it was late.

_Tis now the very witching time of night,_

_When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out . . ._

Jason blew on his hot chocolate; nonchalant as you like.

_. . . Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood_

_ And do such bitter business as the day _

_Would quake to look upon . . ._

Now that there was a lessened risk of burning his taste buds, Jason took a hearty gulp of his drink. He needed the strength to get through the conversation he expected to happen.

Should Jason do as he read? Should he _speak daggers_?

No. It was Tim who had shown up at _his_ door, not the other way around. If he was here for the reason Jason anticipated, it was up to Tim to speak for himself.

But Jason wasn’t willing to wait all night in silent anticipation. He took increasingly large drinks from his hot chocolate, nearly scorching his throat but refusing to make any pained noise and give Tim leeway to escape an explanation. Jason set down his mug on a coaster (hilariously decorated with an image of a robin), and placed his book down next to it—closed, to give no impression of further respite.

Tim, mind as mercurial as ever, was quick to catch on. He took a heartening gulp himself, drinking the hot chocolate like a street-side drain—of course, with his coffee addiction, he was probably more used to guzzling down hot drinks—before thunking his cup down as well.

Jason quirked his eyebrow but kept a bored expression, even with his shock that Tim actually managed to use a coaster.

Tim turned to see him straight on, and Jason was struck with the evidence that gave away Tim’s intentions on sight.

Suddenly regretting putting down his mug and losing a prop to fiddle with, Jason stretched to sprawl his arms on the armrest to his right and the back of the sofa to his left.

His eyes flitted over the heavy bags packed below Tim’s eyes and the shaky, unfocussed look as the younger man tried to stir himself for a serious conversation.

Tim clenched his fingers (when nervous, he would alternate between pressing the joints of each finger). “I can’t”—he paused and breathed deep—“I need. You. To sleep. At, _for_ the night.”

Jason pretended not to being paying acute attention to how Tim was unable to look directly at him. Tim looked first at his own hands, then his eyes flicked to Jason’s face before locking themselves on a piece of ceiling behind Jason and to the left. He took it as Tim being ashamed. (Tim wasn’t. At least, not for the reason Jason thought he was).

Jason was proven wrong and taken aback when Tim looked him straight in the eye. (He’d underestimated his conviction).

Tim tried to reiterate what he wanted. “I need you, your— Would it be too much to ask—? Could I sleep here, in your room, w-with you, for a night?”

Tim paused. He wasn’t saying what he wanted to. Tired of awkwardly manoeuvring around conversational landmines, Tim got straight to the point. “I can’t sleep.”

He looked pointedly at Jason’s equally wrecked face (just health-wise, Jason was doing a good job of keeping his feelings off his face). “And I don’t think you can too.”

He dropped his hands on his knees; blunt and coolly bringing to the air their mutual destruction. “It’s just one night.”

That last sentence may have been spoken as a truth, but some deeply buried instinct in Jason (and Tim) gave away how unlikely it was.

Jason didn’t bother answering. He knew what he’d like to say, but he knew it wouldn’t be the truth or helpful in any way.

Slapping his hands to his knees like Tim, he pushed up from the sofa. He tiredly grabbed his mug and left it in the sink. Returning for his book and putting it in its place, he trudged to the bedroom. Seeing no point in turning on the light to reveal the ‘bitter business’ that would go on in the room, he lowered himself onto the far side of the bed. He tossed the duvet over himself and stared at the window almost angrily.

Tim put away his own mug and followed after Jason when he’d left the room. He approached the bedroom, more unsure now if the silent invitation was actually him being granted permission. He pushed forward anyway, but his nervousness slowed him down enough for him to avoid the bedposts for the first time. He slid into the opposite side of the bed, facing away from Jason.

Jason clenched his eyes shut as the bed bounced under Tim, signalling the other half as occupied.

Jason shuffled, pulling the blanket up to his chin.

Tim tucked himself in, unintentionally mirroring Jason.

Tim whispered into the dark, “Good night, Jason.”

Jason screwed his eyes shut tighter, violently willing them to even try becoming wet and suffer his wrath. He couldn’t maintain his anger though—he wasn’t willing to acknowledge it, but Tim’s gentle snoring confirmed for him that it was already easier to slip off.

Eyes wet and a couple drops spilled over onto his pillow, Jason dozed. Falling into a deep slumber, his body became unwound and lost its tension.

There may have been something questionable about the transfer of ownership of Tim’s mug and something perversely wrong about their switched positions on the bed, but there was something right, something that felt like fate or providence—a familiar, well-worn comfort in how their hands found each other in the night.

Tim’s dreams started anxious, refusing to let him forget the wrinkled sheets that told of desperate tossing.

Jason’s dreams started scared, curious, confused. He didn’t know what to expect in the morning. Would Tim leave straight away? Would he wake to find him sleeping peacefully beside him? Would he wake to find that he had imagined the whole thing?

Their dreams both transitioned into something less fearful. As their unconscious hands wrapped around each other, their dreams too turned to better, more hopeful things.

They both had the thought not to care about the morning or the future or what this meant—for now, there was only this moment. And the two of them in this room together. It felt good and somehow through their dream, they both agreed that right now felt right.

**Author's Note:**

> My poor crying son, Jason! Anyone else's heart break at that bit?
> 
> I wrote this pretty loosely, being loose with the time and events happening, but I can finally articulate why I feel it fits so much—it reflects how the series takes place mostly at night and reflects the almost liminal space surrounding Jason and Tim; the weird ethereal-ness of their sleeping together. Like how in [Inertia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11095521), Jason feels like if it weren't for the small signs Tim had been there, he'd think he'd imagined the whole thing.
> 
> I started planning this immediately a month after I posted [Impulse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11113473), the night of July 6th. As you can imagine, it was the guilt. Then a week later (13), I had to test out my new contact lenses and spent an afternoon typing in a Starbucks--went home, carried on typing for about two hours--back to Starbucks the next day (14; because I had to make up for a day I skipped the lenses), carried on typing. Was scared to work away from the Starbucks and had a final pair of trial lenses, so waited for the following Tuesday (18; slash when I had to go to the opticians) and finished it.  
>    
> I tried to edit this at like 2 a.m. tonight (after another month anniversary and inspired by the fact that I wrote most of another fic on Friday) but that didn't work, and then I spent pretty much the entire day—around meals, that other fic and FINALLY GETTING A HAIRCUT (seriously, went from below the butt cut to lobbing off some inches, filling a dustpan with hair, and looking like a badass YA protagonist)—editing it. I spent a month hyping it, and apparently didn't underestimate the job—Google Docs tells me I made 289 edits that day (plus 3 for that 2 a.m. try).
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **P.S.** I'm not going to apologise for being a day late (it's the 7th) to add the notes and title (I'll update my profile next) because I'm sure I'm the only one who cares that much **and** it took a few days of waking up feeling worse and worse every morning to acknowledge another dip into the depression spiral. I knew I was feeling low—it's why I spent so much time isolating myself with the excuse of writing—but it took a bad morning in another country on a happy occasion to make me realise I was allowed to . . . lift my own responsibilities, I guess.
> 
> Anyway, hope you have a lovely day and a happy _Rakhi_ to anyone celebrating!  
>  (For the second thing, assuming you're reading it today). The long description is justified by the extra-long fic! ＼(￣▽￣*)／


End file.
